In February 1685 Charles the Second died—not without some suspicion of foul play. His brother, the Duke of York, an avowed Papist, ascended the throne as James the Second. This was a flagrant breach of the Constitution, and Argyll—attempting to avert the catastrophe by an invasion of Scotland at the same time that Monmouth should invade England—not only failed, but was captured and afterwards executed by the same instrument—the “Maiden”—with which his father’s head had been cut off nigh a quarter of a century before. As might have been expected, the persecutions were not relaxed by the new king.

 

When good old Cargill was martyred, a handsome fair young man was looking on in profound sorrow and pity. He was a youth of great moral power, and with a large heart. His name was James Renwick. From that hour this youth cast in his lot with the persecuted wanderers, and, after the martyrdom of Cameron and Cargill, and the death of Welsh, he was left almost alone to manage their affairs. The “Strict Covenanters” had by this time formed themselves into societies for prayer and conference, and held quarterly district meetings in sequestered places, with a regular system of correspondence—thus secretly forming an organised body, which has continued down to modern times.

 

It was while this young servant of God—having picked up the mantle which Cargill dropped—was toiling and wandering among the mountains, morasses, and caves of the west, that a troop of dragoons was seen, one May morning, galloping over the same region “on duty.” They swept over hill and dale with the dash and rattle of men in all the pride of youth and strength and the panoply of war. They were hasting, however, not to the battlefield but to the field of agriculture, there to imbrue their hands in the blood of the unarmed and the helpless.

 

At the head of the band rode the valiant Graham of Claverhouse. Most people at that time knew him as the “bloody Clavers,” but as we look at the gay cavalier with his waving plume, martial bearing, beautiful countenance, and magnificent steed, we are tempted to ask, “Has there not been some mistake here?” Some have thought so. One or two literary men, who might have known better, have even said so, and attempted to defend their position!

 

“Methinks this is our quarry, Glendinning,” said Claverhouse, drawing rein as they approached a small cottage, near to which a man was seen at work with a spade.

 

“Yes—that’s John Brown of Priesthill,” said the sergeant.

 

“You know the pestilent fanatic well, I suppose?”

 

“Ay. He gets the name o’ being a man of eminent godliness,” answered the sergeant in a mocking tone; “and is even credited with having started a Sabbath-school!”

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